


dreams of her

by lessix (scrxamitout)



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Angst, Drowning, F/F, I'm Sorry, Not Beta Read, Sad Ending, Vomiting, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22803553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrxamitout/pseuds/lessix
Summary: Catherine Parr met Anne Boleyn on a rainy midnight, while passing through the tower of London.
Relationships: Anne Boleyn/Catherine Parr
Comments: 10
Kudos: 82





	dreams of her

**Author's Note:**

> me: I have to finish two fanfics  
> also me: writes something else  
> but well, I'm sorry, really.
> 
> also this is on my tumblr lessix, come scream at me

Catherine Parr met Anne Boleyn on a rainy midnight, while passing through the tower of London.

Anne’s dress was a mess, all white and out of fashion. Still Parr couldn’t stop watching the girl. She had bright green eyes, and long dark brown hair that almost got to her waist. A lost, confused look on her face got Catherine worried.

“Are you okay?” She asked. The girl saw her and smile.

Her smile was so bright it could light up the world.

“Yes, yes I am.”

(…)

Writing poetry is not quite a Catherine Parr thing, but she still does it.

Something about the white dress in the middle of the night that she can’t shake, not without pouring it into words.

(…)

It’s over a week before she sees the girl again. Just like she remembered her, but this time a choker on her neck catches her attention. Is white, the whole look is, just like last time. It matches almost perfectly with the porcelain skin.

“Good night.” Parr tries to sound casual, cool.

“Good night.” The other replies.

Cathy turns, heading to the tube. Without wanting to do that again, and lose back the gorgeous girl, she gives a glance back, but can’t find her again.

(…)

She dreams of her, which is something completely weird.

There is so much detail on the dream, things she can’t even quite put a finger on. They couldn’t possible have exchanged more than seven words, but in her dream, she knows exactly how the brunette would laugh and talk.

Even more strange, she wakes up with an ache on her neck.

(…)

Catherine hated having to cover in the bar, one of the advantages of being the goddaughter of the owner was having the best hours, and escaping dealing with drunk guys past ten. But since Jane had his son, little Edward, she had been pleading for a change of hours and Parr couldn’t just say no.

Staying in the bar late meant she had to write there, hiding behind the counter, wishing to be in her way too small apartment with the peace and quiet of her favourite Spotify playlist. Between college, bartending, and trying to write at least one good thing before finishing her studies she was constantly on the border of a mental breakdown.

The only thing she was glad about, was that apparently every time she made extra hours the white dressed girl would be standing near the tower of London. Catherine wished to be able to talk more to her, but was too anxious to create any more conversation that just casual greetings. Like written on stone, every night she would see the girl, a dream about her would come.

(…)

“Goodnight!” Cathy screamed, passing beside the other girl.

“Wait!” The paler responded. “I was wondering if I could have your name.”

“Yeah.” She is taken aback, slowing her peace. “I’m Catherine Parr.”

The writer extends a hand, which the other takes without hesitation. The touch is soft, almost like silk, but so cold that it could be ice.

“Anne.”

Anne fits her. Even if Catherine is not sure if the name fits her or the way she says it, pronouncing slowly, needing the time because every part of it is important. It’s a really short name, but still sounds so elegant and distinguished coming from her. Parr is sure she is not going to be capable so pronounce a name so elegantly ever in her life.

(…)

“What are you thinking about, Cathy?” Anna asks.

“What?”

“You have your head in the clouds, what’s going on?” The German questions again.

“Nothing it’s just I’m having crazy days. With changing hours with Jane everything became catastrophic.” Parr excuses herself. “Do you want the usual?”

“It’s almost too late for that, I would prefer something stronger, what you got?”

Catherine smiles, mischief clear on her face.

“We have a new drink, it’s called _bridge_. One of these and you will be on the other side.”

She takes a long glass and starts mixing different alcoholics beverages, plus some other stuff like sugar and some fruit juice. Anna drinks it quickly, not bothering by the name of it.

“It is not that strong.” Cleves accuses Cathy.

“Try to stand up.”

The German does it quickly, stumbling on her feet and guiding a hand to her forehead in an attempt to drown the sudden numbness she feels.

“You were right.”

“I always am, _linda_.”

(…)

That night Anna is uncapable of standing up by herself, less to go home alone. Catherine dismisses her early, under the promise she will take her friend back to the apartment. Going through the streets of London with a really drunk woman, who is at least half a head taller than Parr it’s not quite easy task, but she manages.

“Friend of yours, Catherine?” Anne asks, smiling.

She almost shines, her white dress floating with the cold wind of the night. The clouds above them are grey, almost black, announcing a rain coming, but Catherine can’t bring herself to care, not even when Anna moves towards a trash can.

“Yes, you can say so.” Parr says, before adding: “She is your namesake, almost. It ends with an A.”

“Well, I’m Anne with an E.”

Cathy laughs.

“Why are you laughing?” Anne questions.

“You made a reference, to that show.” Cathy responds.

“What show?”

The girl seems confused, and for a second Catherine feels like that too, but when Anna takes her arm and request to please go home, the smaller complies.

“Good night, Anne!” She screams.

(…)

When the storm breaks, Catherine had barely time to get back to her house. She luckily didn’t catch the rain, or else her house would probably be a mess.

She wonders about Anne, Anne with her white dress and precious smile. With her cold touch and pale skin. Anne who is just as enchanting as anyone could be, elegant but still playful. Just thinking about her name makes Catherine have her head over heels.

Catherine Parr was not one to fall in love so abruptly, a first sight. Her love was usually slow, getting used to the person, knowing them completely. But it was not the case, outside the things she could got from their short talks, she knew nothing about Anne.

But she was still falling.

(…)

“Goodnight, Catherine!” Anne calls, voice clear in the not so populated street.

“Goodnight, Anne.”

(…)

There was something strange, a sickening feeling when Catherine got closer to Anne.

Just the sight of her pale, even slightly green, skin made Parr feel giddy and shaky. Her hands would start tremble, and her mouth would run out of words quicker than it usually did. Even the temperature seemed to get lower near her.

Catherine still felt attracted, an uneasy feeling of belonging. A need to get closer, even if it sickened her to the very core, letting her so tired that the only thing she could do when arriving home was sleeping.

And have nightmares about her.

(…)

“Yes, godmother, I’m getting to the bar right now.” Catherine says on the phone.

Arriving, she takes the key to the back door, letting herself in the vast place. Cold hits her skin while she changes into her uniform. Going into the bar, the music starts sounding more and more loud, until she shows up there.

A girl with brown and pink hair is singing for the karaoke night, totally careless but hitting the notes.

“There you are.” Catherine of Aragon calls. “I thought I had lost you to your books.”

“Funny.” Cathy said, straight-faced. “Who is that?”

“I’m not sure, Katherine something, but she is good.” Aragon explains. “You should go and sing.”

“I don’t think so.” Parr replies.

“Whatever you say.” She makes a pause. “I was wondering if you were going to take again Jane’s turn.”

“Yes, yes I will.”

(…)

Walking back home makes her stomach turn when thinking about watching Anne. It must have been a prediction, because when she finds the other woman, she doesn’t exactly look like always.

Her green eyes are not bright and gleeful, instead there is something obscure apart from the tears falling. Her white skin is left untouched, not a single mark of redness, still it is puffy and demonstrates signs of crying. The white dress is different, looking like a dirty white, almost grey, and the choker is thicker, wrapping itself tighter on her neck.

“Anne?” Catherine asks, getting closer. “Are you okay?”

“I’m so lost.” The woman cries. “Have you ever felt like that? Like you are slowly drowning? Is like there is just so much water weight on me, my lungs can’t take the pressure.”

Parr slowly moves, sitting beside her, she wonders for a moment, before putting a hand on Anne’s back. As expected, her skin is freezing, but the other doesn’t care. Slowly drawing paths in her back, she waits for words to come out, but they don’t.

“I am just so tired.”

“Let’s go out.” Catherine suddenly reacts.

“What?”

“Let’s do something. Right now. We deserve a free night.” Catherine slowly guides a hand to Anne’s face, attempting to dry the tears with her thumb. “What do you say?”

A timid smile appears on Anne’s face.

“I think you are right.”

Catherine quickly stands up, offering a hand.

“Lady…”

“Boleyn.”

“Lady Boleyn, would you do me the pleasure of being my companion for tonight?”

“Of course, your majesty.”

Both of them interlock their hands, while laughing at their silly manners.

Walking the streets of London never felt more magical to Parr. Everything seemed prettier, brighter. In her dream like state, everything is better, and she is no longer tired. She wonders if it is another fantasy of hers, but decides against it, even if it was, everything was just so wonderful that it wasn’t worth it to not relish it.

They get to a club, with dark lights and loud pop music. Anne smiles at Parr, who takes her lead. They start to make silly moves in the middle of the dance floor, not caring about the consequence of embarrassing themselves. Anne’s eyes have a certain gleam, shining every time she smiles for a move Cathy makes.

The atmosphere makes Cathy feel drunk, everything brilliant, dazzling, under the blue lights. People are moving in a blur, and the only static thing are green eyes watching her, attentive at every move she makes. It feels right, she keeps telling herself so, but at the same time an insanity to the whole situation keeps her out of that train of thought.

“Would you like to drink something?” Catherine questions, to which Anne gives half a smile.

“Of course.”

“I think I know a better place.”

Taking back Anne’s hand, they start making their way outside. An hour has already passed, and even less people can be found in the streets.

“Tell me about yourself, Catherine.” Boleyn questions.

“I’m not an interesting person.” The shorter claims.

“Don’t say that.” She fakes pouts. “Please, I want to know.”

“Okay.” Cathy laughs. “Where to begin? I am the oldest of three siblings, and we used to live in the north, in Cumbria to be more exact. I am good with languages, since I really love anything that has to do with words.”

“You sound like a bookworm.” Anne proclaims.

“I am! But really, I just love it.”

“I am not good with languages.” The taller explains. “But I speak French.”

“For real? I do too, and Italian. And Spanish. And I can translate from Latin but I haven’t practiced in a long time.”

“How long? Since somebody actually cared and talked Latin?” Anne mocks her.

“Shut up! It’s really interesting, and important. A lot of languages come from it.”

“What is your favourite word? In Latin, I mean.”

“I think _vigil._ It means sentinel.” Cathy makes a pause and signals the sky. “It can also mean stars. You know, they watch us.”

“The starts watch us?”

“Totally. So does the moon, and the sun.” Catherine slowly strokes Anne’s hand with her own. “I moved with my godmother when I was still young, departing was really hard. My mum told me that starts will be everywhere, watching over me even if she couldn’t. It was good to know, like a protection.”

“I used to live in France, my dad sent me there for boarding school.” Her voice grows darker. “I didn’t saw any of my siblings for a while and it was… It was really lonely. Still I found comfort in the sky too. I don’t think starts can see me, but I do think I can see them. Like stars, the moon. It doesn’t matter where you are, the moon is always the same.”

Anne hides her face.

“That’s a nice thought.”

“It’s dumb, Catherine.”

“It’s not.” Cathy reaffirms with a squeeze to Anne’s hand. “It’s something good to think. Like every person that has ever been on earth has known the moon. A million of civilizations, people we don’t even know their names. Every hero and villain saw the same moon.”

“The moon is beautiful.”

“No more than you.”

Anne gives a surprised look to Parr, who looks away.

“Keep telling me about you.”

“I told you I love words. I want to be a writer.”

She is trying hard to keep her breath under control, but deep inside her heart is racing. The sickening feeling makes her feel that she could overshare at any moment, which is something she would rather not happen.

“I am currently in University, and I am trying to write this book, but it is just so much and so hard. It’s like I can write a thousand pages, but when I proof read it, I hate it.” Catherine explains.

 _Way to go with no oversharing, Parr_. She blames herself.

“I think you are probably just too perfectionist.” Anne’s voice is sweet, familiar. “I used to write, and I loved it, it was messy, a strange kind of poetry.”

“Really?” Cathy questions. “Since I met you, I have been writing little poems here and there. I was never one to write literal poems, maybe sonnets but nothing more.”

“That sounds really structured from you, Catherine.”

“Why do you always call me Catherine?” She burst out.

It’s Anne’s way to say here name, pronouncing it whole, making her feel so important and personal. Maybe it was something about living in France, having another language for so long, but still it doesn’t quite explain why.

“It’s your name; isn’t it, Catherine?”

There is a playful smirk on her face, which brings Parr to her edge. Saying her name into the conversation feels so intimate. She considers that the only other way to make her feel like that would be if Anne ran her fingers through her arms, through her face. It is confidential, affectionate.

“Yes, but people call me Cathy.”

“Well, I am not people.”

Fortunate or not for the shortest, the moment Anne finishes saying it is when they arrive to Aragon’s bar. Nobody is there, counting that the clock indicates 2AM, and it closes at one, but the mess is still there. Some chairs out of its places, while others are neatly sitting in tables. The floor is dirty, and there are glasses still sitting on the scenario.

Still, she can’t appreciate it more, with the fairy lights, and Anne by her side, the chaotic scene looks like something irreal, out of a dream.

“Welcome to my job, you wanted to know about me? I’m here most of the time.” Cathy grabs a clean glass. “What do you want to drink, milady?”

“What do you recommend me?” Catherine nods, but doesn’t say a word. “So, bartending. I couldn’t possibly have guessed it.”

“Well, it’s not my ideal job. I don’t enjoy crowds to be honest, but my godmother is the owner and I used to do my homework in the back, so I’m used to being here. It’s good.”

“Is it? Really?”

It takes Parr for surprise, how easily she asks, a smirk on her face. A nervous feeling creeping on the back of her mind.

“It is. Really.”

“Would you be a bartender forever?”

“Of course not!”

“Then why is it good?”

Catherine stays in silence while she finishes preparing the drink.

It feels tense, the atmosphere getting heavier instead of better, and none of them talking. Anne has a stern face, with her eyes fixed on Cathy’s hands. From being intimate, the talk became invasive, way too much for both of them to take.

Catherine finishes the drink, and hands it to Anne. She takes a sip, and makes a face.

“That was too much salt.” She jokes, a slight smile appearing on her lips.

“That was a great done margarita. If you can’t handle salt, I hope I see you trying to manage your tequila.”

“Alcohol and salt are two different things, Parr!” Anne slams her first on the table, dramatically. She makes a pause. “I’m sorry if I made things weird.”

“It’s alright, I don’t care.”

“It’s just… Lately nothing is what I expect. I wish I made things because they made me happy, and not because I felt obligated to.”

“I know that feeling.” Catherine explains. “I feel like I’m constantly running out of time, as if I sleep when I wake up there will be nothing there. It keeps me at edge most of the time, like I can’t just experience one moment, I _have_ to do something else, and when I finish there is another thing to do. I think this is the first night I feel alive and living the moment in a while.”

“I feel the same Catherine.” Anne explains. “And you are a great bartender.”

“If you keep calling me by my whole name, I will start to feel important.”

“You should feel important, you are.”

Anne Boleyn was most definitely a flirt.

She didn’t sound forced, or uncomfortable, but it was rather just a way to be. With her long eyelashes, frisky smirk and porcelain complexion, it was impossible to resist. Elegant movements, a way with words, and the warm feeling she irradiated even if her skin was icy.

Catherine could feel herself painfully falling.

They talk about it all, play silly games with the cups and dancing slow dodging tables.

Deciding it was more than what Catherine could take, they opt to go and grab coffee at her apartment. The chill of the night still present, Parr gives Anne her jacket. Light revealing it was almost time for the sun to shine again, something dreadful for them, knowing their night off was about to end.

When they get to the spot where they usually part ways, the sky starts turning a pink colour, indicating the dawn.

Anne stays for a moment, watching the reflexion of the light on the river. She looks almost like a statue, firm, almost as if her chest is not breathing. Catherine takes out her phone, taking photos of Anne, until she realizes and turns her head, smiling.

“You are giving me a breath, Catherine. I never thought I would see another night like this one, but I can’t be any other thing that thankful.” She plays with her hands. “I know it was so brief, only a night when a year have so many, but there is nothing more I could’ve ask for.”

They stare at each other eyes.

“One last night.” She mutters, not loud enough for Catherine to hear. “I have to go.”

“Can I get a kiss?” The other one wonders.

Anne impacts her lips with Catherine.

The world suddenly goes on mute. There is no other sound, except the blood running through their veins. Anne’s lips are soft, softer than what Cathy remembered lips were, and her skin feels as if might break if she grabs it too hard.

Still, it is tender, caring. So warm despite everything being so cold around there.

Anne is the first to pull away, giving Catherine a smile.

“I hope the best for you, Catherine Parr.”

Catherine takes just a moment to get her eyes open again, and Anne is no longer there.

(…)

It drives her almost crazy at first, doing research about Anne Boleyn, but there is almost little to no information about her online, nothing about the past few years.

The pictures on her phone are still intact, and it is the only thing that keeps her from thinking it was a dream.

She waits for hours at midnight on their usual spot, but Anne never shows up again. There is no sight of her white dress or kryptonite eyes.

There’s nothing, as if she never existed.

(…)

Katherine Howard becomes a regular on the bar, singing almost every night.

She is young, around eighteen years, but she still becomes friends with Catherine and Anna. Aragon even becomes fond of the girl, offering her a weekly payment in exchange of singing. Jane is enamoured with her, but opinion biased since Edward was probably in love with her, not crying when he was on her arms.

(…)

Catherine has nightmares about it, followed by the feeling of being underwater.

She has nightmares of Anne, both of them lost in the middle of a sea, or a river, and when they are about to reach each other, they can’t. She can’t even clearly hear Anne talking on her dreams, but instead it is so much pressure on her chest she might faint from it.

But at least she remembers.

(…)

Times goes away flying.

It’s been two months, and Catherine haven’t seen Anne.

She almost even prayed to see her again, to hear her voice, a sight of her smirk, but it never comes, all she has is nothing, and three photos of that night. Parr wonders if she moved back to France, if that was why she was crying. If she is alright, writing poetry on a café. If her dress is still white and her choker still wraps around her neck.

Her mind can’t stop missing her.

(…)

“What’s up with that face, Cathy?” Katherine asks, Anna rolls her eyes.

“She has been painfully pinning on this girl for almost four months now, even if they only went out once.”

“Shut up, Anna!” Catherine bickers. “You don’t understand.”

“Keep saying that, is not my fault you dearest Anne Boleyn isn’t anywhere to be found.”

“Wait, what?” The younger’s face is pale, drained from any colour. “What do you mean _Anne Boleyn_?”

“Do you know her?” Cathy wonders, hopeful. “Look, I have these photos.”

She quickly goes through her gallery, showing the three pictures.

“Where do you get those?” Kat’s voice is panicking, and she is not bothering to hide it.

“Near the river, four months ago, why?”

“Anne was my cousin.”

 _“Was?_ ” Catherine asks.

“She has been dead for seven years.”

(…)

Catherine can’t process it at first, but then it starts to make sense.

Weird dreams.

Not knowing a show from three years ago.

Pale skin.

Disappearing.

Always cold.

Never blushes.

_Is like there is just so much water weight on me, my lungs can’t take the pressure._

Catherine feels sick to her very core, almost as much as she felt when she was with Anne.

(…)

It is the morbid thing to do, but Catherine begs her namesake to take her to Anne’s grave.

The cemetery is cold, rows and rows of grey pieces of stone laying around. The grass is almost as green as Anne eyes, and Catherine has a bouquet of white margarita flowers on her hand.

She wants to believe it is just another dream.

Dreading the moment, they get to stay on front of a grave, which clearly says Anne Boleyn, stating her death on the 19th day, of the fifth months of 2012.

What comes as a surprise is Parr’s jacket sitting on the grave.

“I hope you the best for you too, Anne Boleyn.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!  
> also, in case any of you read my other fanfics, I will update the jane&kat au probably this week (or sunday if I have no time), but I have an exam on friday and then I'm going to the beach for a week so cross your fingers I might be able to write something while there


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